Growing Up at 221B
by poetanddidntknowit34
Summary: Hamish came bounding into the lives of Sherlock and John one year ago, but he still has a lot of growing up to do on Baker Street. Rated T for later chapters.
1. The First Year

"Smile big now, boys!" Mrs. Hudson said proudly as John lifted Hamish and swung him up into his arms. The baby squawked a little, before giggling when John tickled his stomach, and Sherlock grabbed his foot. Mrs. Hudson pressed the capture button on her camera and a flash went off, snagging the image out of time and preserving it forever.

Hamish reeled at the flash, his eyes getting wide and staring at the camera in sheer amazement, and then reached out for his Papa. Sherlock took his son into his arms, and tried to talk to John while the infant began to tug at his curls relentlessly. "John, are we still going out to Sussex tomorrow?" He winced as Hamish got a big handful of hair and tugged.

John reached out and began to untangle the mess of fingers and hair as he spoke, "We should be able to. If Kelly is still able to babysit, then there should be no problem. God, Sherlock, your hair in a jungle. I think we might've lost this hand." He cooed to Hamish, before detaching him fully from the detective. "Nope. False alarm. But, you do need a haircut." John ran his own hand through the curls to emphasize his point.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "You liked my hair length last night." Mrs. Hudson stifled a small, shocked giggled.

John blushed a little. "Yeah, well, that was before I lost my son, a pen, and the kitchen sink in your mop." He pushed Sherlock slightly.

The detective straightened his jacket then went over to the mantle and fixed the giant banner that read 'Happy 1st Birthday Hamish!' in big, red letters. "After Sussex, I'll ask Molly if she'll give me a trim."

John nodded, before returning Hamish to his playpen in the center of the room. The toy cars and stuffed animals had been thrown to the far end of the pen, and Hamish sat cooing over his Papa's old cell phone and a plastic magnifying glass, before picking up the fabric book about a dog named Spot that Mrs. Hudson had picked up. Even though he couldn't read yet, Hamish enjoyed being like Daddy and Papa and flipping through the pages. "He's a smart kid for only one year." John remarked.

"Well of course he is, look at who he has for parents." Lestrade remarked from the doorway, having just arrived to the party with Molly.

Mrs. Hudson hugged their party guests and directed them to where there was food and a place to set their presents. Sherlock attached his own comment onto Lestrade's, "Well of course he's going to be a genius then. There's no logic that says else wise."

"We're still working on this whole 'modesty' thing." John said, brushing past everyone to get the tea tray out, just as Mycroft arrived, Kelly trailing behind him, a hand shyly on his coat.

"Kelly," Mycroft said as he coaxed the girl out into the room, "This is Lestrade and Molly. They work with your uncles."

Kelly relaxed a little. "Hi, everyone." Mycroft nudged her again. "Uncle John, I brought Hamish a present." She held out a small box with a purple bow. Hamish started to kick and reach up in his play pen when he noticed that Kelly had come into the room. The present was abandoned on the coffee table and the thirteen year old ran over to her cousin. "Hi, Hamish!" She picked him up and held him with ease. "Are you excited for our day tomorrow?" The baby bounced in her arms and reached for her ponytail, giving it a tug once he'd gotten it. "Ouch, Hamish. Don't pull." He tugged again.

"Here, Kelly." Sherlock took the boy from his niece. "Hamish, sit with your Uncle Lestrade. He doesn't have any hair for you to pull."

"Hey," Lestrade started, but never got to finish as his godson was suddenly being set into his arms.

"What is that child's fascination with hair?" Mrs. Hudson remarked as she pulled up a chair and poured herself a cup of tea.

"I don't know, but he's extremely light." Lestrade said, "Don't you ever feed this kid?"

John rolled his eyes. "He has his Papa's appetite. I try, but he won't eat if he's preoccupied with something. But thank God he doesn't have Sherlock's sleep habits anymore. He sleeps through the night pretty well these days."

"That's good. I remember Kelly used to sleep so little, it drove her mom nuts." Mycroft said, but then promptly left the subject again. He didn't talk about Breanne since her accident and death when Kelly was seven. "So tomorrow I'll drop Kelly off at nine, and you'll call me when you're on the train back?"

John nodded. "Thanks again, Kelly." The girl nodded, her mouth full of the pizza she found on the table.

"So, you two are officially going to pursue the case then?" Lestrade asked, trying to sip his tea around Hamish's grabbing hands.

Sherlock scoffed, "Of course. A murder-suicide with no cause of death? Wouldn't miss it for the world." Hamish began bouncing eagerly again. "See that, John? Murder is exciting, isn't it Hamish?" The baby cooed and reached out for Sherlock again.

"I swear to God, Sherlock." John glared at him. "Is it like a disease in the Holmes genes?"

"He's not the one who moved in with a total stranger after being wounded in war, then ran around London solving grisly murder cases at all hours of the night." Mycroft pointed out.

The child at the center of the party reached up for his Papa's curls again, but Sherlock caught his tiny wrist before he could get trapped again. Hamish scowled and began to sulk in Sherlock's arms. "Oh, you're right, John." Molly said, "I can see it now. He does look a lot like Sherlock."

The party laughed, causing Sherlock to frown on impulse, accidently driving Molly's point home. But before he could correct his facial features, Lestrade was able to snap a picture on his phone. The laughter continued, and when it finally died down, John stood and asked, "Who wants cake?"


	2. All the Other Families

"Sherlock! Hurry up or we'll be late!" John called up the stairs, then squatted to fix Hamish's school jumper. "I swear, Hal, your Papa can't tell time."

Hamish giggled and yelled up the stairs, "Papa, I can tell time! I telled it yesterday! Mrs. Hudson taught me! And now it's..." he squinted at the clock on the wall, "It's... It's time to go, Papa!"

John smiled. Hamish had a thirst for knowledge and was almost bursting at the seams to go to school. There was still no answer from up stairs, but John knew Sherlock was up. He'd woken him just before he took his shower, then exchanged places with the tall man before going down to make breakfast. "Sherlock, we're going to leave without you!"

Sherlock flung the door open, and started down the stairs, his purple dress shirt still unbuttoned and falling carelessly around his shoulders. "John, it's just primary school. It's stupid and a waste of time."

"Like knowing the solar system?"

"Are you really still on that?"

John smiled. "It does not matter what your opinions on school are. Hamish is going, and he is excited about it. Now, put some clothes on, will you? You're being indecent." John put his hand on Sherlock's chest and gave him a small shove.

Sherlock smirked and started working the buttons of his shirt with his pale, nimble fingers. "Good morning, by the way." He leaned over and kissed John on the cheek. "Since you didn't bother saying it today."

Mrs. Hudson was watching from her usual place next to the door. "What'd he say instead?"

Sherlock laughed, "'Get up, you great big git. You don't get to sleep in today.' Very romantic, John." The shorter man rolled his eyes and continued checking Hamish's backpack to make sure he had everything.

"Papa! Be nice to Daddy." Hamish scolded.

Sherlock picked Hamish up and said, "So can I be mean to you, then instead?" He tickled his stomach.

"No- Papa!" Hamish gasped through fits of laughter. "Be nice- to everyone!" Sherlock set him down.

"Now I think we all know that's impossible." Sherlock tucked his shirt in and grabbed his coat. "Oh sh- shoot." Sherlock corrected himself quickly when he caught a look from Mrs. Hudson. "I almost forgot." He went to the coat closet and dug out a long white box. Kneeling on the ground, he pulled the lid off and said, "Look what I got for you, Hal." Sherlock pulled a black trench coat, identical to his own in a smaller size, out of the box.

Hamish's eyes got wide and he jumped into his Papa's arms giving him a big hug, and planting a kiss on his neck, the highest place he could reach. He grabbed the coat and put it on, running down the hall and back. "Look! I'm just like Papa!"

"When did you get that?" John asked.

"I picked it up last week while you were out getting his uniform." Sherlock said, fixing his hair in the hall mirror.

Mrs. Hudson looked at the clock. "You had better get going, or you'll be late." She grabbed a brown paper bag off the table. "I made your lunch today, my little Mish. I put a chocolate chip cookie in there, too."

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson!" Hamish hugged her legs, then bounded out the door and onto the sidewalk as soon as the door was opened.

"Don't run!" John called after him. "Thanks Mrs. H. We'll see you later." John grabbed his own coat from the rack and put it on as he was walking down the stairs.

John and Sherlock walked side-by-side down the sidewalk to where the bus was going to pick Hamish up, about a mile from the flat. Hamish ran ahead a bit, then came back, then resigned to walk next to his Papa. Looking up, he saw that Sherlock had buttoned up his coat, turned the collar up, and was walking with his hands in his pockets. Hamish quickly did the buttons on his own coat, flipped up and collar and shoved his own hands in his pockets. John looked down at him and stifled a laugh. He nudged his husband and pointed to their son. Sherlock smiled and ruffled the black curls on the small boy's head.

The bus stop was filled with other children and their parents when they got there, so the sleuth couple stood on the fringe, watching for the bus. The child next to them came over and started talking to Hamish. "Hi! I'm Janet."

"I'm Hamish!"

Janet giggled. "That's a funny name."

"It's my Daddy's middle name." Hamish returned, not even phased by the comment.

"I'm named after my grandmother. She and Mommy made my lunch today." The little girl held out her brown paper sack.

"Our landlady made mine!" Hamish said excitedly.

Janet raised an eyebrow. "Um, ok."

The bus pulled up, so the little girl went back to her mother and father. Hamish watched, and looked around at all the other children around him, his keen mind observing everything just as Papa had taught him. But he was pulled from his thoughts by John, who wrapped his arms tightly around Hamish, lifting him high enough that both his parents could kiss him on the cheek before releasing him to go get on the bus.

As they waved the bus goodbye, John said, "Now let's get out of here. Janet's parents are staring."

And they turned to hail the first cab they could find.

John checked his watch almost every half hour the whole day, the time passing very slowly. Every time he brought his watch up to look, Sherlock pushed his wrist back down almost instantly. He said nothing, but the look he gave John had 'don't torture yourself' written all over it, then the tall man would immediately go back to working on the crime scene.

They were at Scotland Yard talking to Lestrade by that early afternoon, and with only an hour before they had to leave, John's watch-checking had increased to every five minutes. Lestrade took no offense to this, but just carried his conversation on with Sherlock, laying out a small agenda for the week in terms of the case they started that day. Finally, when John's pacing and clock gazing had annoyed Sherlock enough, he snatched John's hand out of the air as it brought his watch into view, and held it stationary down to their sides as he finished his sentence. "See that Molly keeps the body for a few more days until I can make sure I've got everything. My own medical examiner has been distracted today." He looked at John, who wasn't paying attention, but staring at the clock instead. "John, you're not even listening. This is our work, by the way." No response. "You have a giant bee crawling into your ear." John just nodded. "I'm having an affair with Lestrade. It's going quite well." Lestrade almost fell out of his chair in surprise, and laughter. John still said nothing.

Sherlock squeezed his hand very hard, and John snapped back to the present. "Huh? Oh, sorry. What'd I miss?"

"Nothing too important." Sherlock said sarcastically. Lestrade was still snickering into his coffee cup, when Sherlock continued, "Well, we should probably get going. Hamish started school today and it's time to pick him up." Sherlock preceded John through the halls in a flutter of black trench coat and an irritated look on his face.

"Slow down, Sher-" John stumbled behind him, his shorter legs unable to keep the correct pace.

Sherlock didn't slow down until they hit the street, and he waited for the cab he called earlier. John reached out to grab his hand again, but Sherlock stuffed his hands into his pockets and stared straight ahead. John frowned and turned to stare at the street as well, as the silence stretched between them. "Did you know that I was almost killed today?"

John looked up in bewilderment. "Wait, what?"

"John, the murder we were investigating took place in a very old building," Sherlock continued in a steady voice. "And a brick fell from the ceiling while were in the stairwell and Lestrade pulled me out of the way just before it could strike me on the head, saving my life." John's eyes widened. "But you were staring at your watch, and didn't see any of it." The cab pulled up to the curb. "Maybe you should just stay home tomorrow." He got in and shut the door with a minute slam.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, I-" John began as he got in the cab, only to be cut off by Sherlock giving the cabbie directions.

"It's fine, John. Let's just go get Hamish and go home." There was silence in the cab, and Sherlock's hands remained in his coat until they pulled up to the bus stop.

"Sherlock, I want to talk about this." John began anew, but was stopped yet again by Sherlock's hand motioning for him to stop.

John shut up, and watched for the bus to arrive. When it did, all the kids poured out in a tidal wave into the arms of their parents. Hamish bounced over and instantly began chatting about his day at school as they started their walk home. "And my teacher is really interesting! Single, but has a lot of boyfriends, smokes a pack a day, and has four small cats!"

John looked at Sherlock. "And did she tell you all of that information?"

Hamish carried on as usual. "No, of course not. I just noticed it about her." He beamed.

Sherlock smiled at John. "He noticed, John. Isn't that great?"

John narrowed his eyes. "Hal, I don't even want to know how you came to all of those conclusions."

They were almost home when Hamish suddenly asked, "We're not like all the other families, are we?"

His parents stopped walking abruptly, causing Hamish to run into the back of Sherlock's leg. The couple looked at each other for a long time, before John said slowly, "No, I guess you could say we're not exactly like the other families."

"OK." Hamish said in his normal, happy-go-lucky manner, and continued walking towards the flat.

John shot another worried look at Sherlock before hurrying off down the street to make sure Hamish's curiosity with the world didn't cause him to wander into traffic.


	3. Sweet Sixteen

"Hamish!" John called up the stairs, greeted only by silence from his teen. "Hamish Ian Watson-Holmes, I know you can hear me!" Silence. "Fine." John mumbled to himself, and stomped up the stair case. He opened the door to Hamish's room to find the sixteen year-old still heavily asleep. "Hamish!" John snapped.

"Five more minutes, Dad." Hamish mumbled sleepily, rolling over.

John walked over and threw the curtains open, bathing the room in sunlight and eliciting a small hiss from his son. He grabbed the sheets and yanked them back, pulling them fully off the bed. Hamish growled and sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "I swear to God, you're more like your Papa every day."

Hamish stretched, his bare chest expanding immensely with the air he took in as a large yawn. "I thought you said Papa never sleeps."

"He doesn't. I was talking about your stubbornness." John turned to leave. "Now, get dressed or you'll be late for your first day back to school. Breakfast is waiting downstairs."

John had been simplistic with breakfast that morning; eggs and toast with grape jam. Sherlock sat at the table awaiting his tea while reading a newspaper when Hamish came bounding down the stairs.

"What's up, Pops?" He said, kissing Sherlock on the cheek before stealing his tea mug out of John's hands. The kid had grown to be just slightly taller than Sherlock, with John's dark blue eyes and Sherlock's curly black hair, and, unfortunately, his stick-like stature.

"Nothing previously, but now that my tea has been stolen, my blood pressure." Sherlock glared over the top of his newspaper.

Hamish shrugged smugly, then kissed John and took a piece of toast as he sailed towards the door. "Where are you going in such a hurry?" John asked.

"Lisa texted. She wants me to walk her to school. I'm borrowing your coat, Papa!"

"What? No! Why?" Sherlock dropped the paper.

"Lisa said I look hot in it!" And Hamish was out the door.

Sherlock huffed and shook his newspaper back into view as John poured him another cup of tea. "Who's this Lisa girl? And when else did he steal my coat for her to see him in it?"

John just shrugged. "You're the reason he's such a lady magnet, though."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow over his paper. "Me?"

John pulled the hair back from his love's forehead to plant a kiss there, setting a new cup of tea on the table. "Yes. You need a haircut, by the way."

Sherlock scoffed, then smiled into his tea mug at John's comment and affection. "That kid's big. Too tall."

"You're just mad that you're no longer the tallest thing in this house."

"I don't like it."

John rolled his eyes. "Well, he sure as hell didn't get that from me."

Hamish placed the books neatly in his locker, organizing them by when he had them in the day, and placed the sack lunch that Mrs. Hudson made him (a tradition for his first day of school) on the second shelf of the locker. "I can't wait for sixth block today." He said with a smile.

"I'll bet. You've been looking forward to that class all summer." Lisa pulled his sixth block textbook out of his locker. "Honors Chemistry Three. As a second year? You're nuts."

Hamish shrugged. "One of my dads is a chemist, what'd you expect?" He shut the locker and brushed a strand of blond hair from Lisa's face.

She smiled and lifted herself onto her tiptoes to brush a kiss on his lips, but before she could, a water balloon exploded across Hamish's back. And another slammed into his front when he turned around. "Make a deduction about this, loser!" Chase called, throwing another balloon into the tall boy's face. "Let me guess, you didn't see that balloon, you 'observed' it." The rugby player sneered.

Lisa practically screamed across the hall, "Leave him alone! You're just mad he's smart and won't do your homework!"

"Oh do shut up, Farley." Janet scoffed, putting her hands on her hips. "You know, Chase, my mom says kids like Hamish shouldn't be allowed to exist. Being the son of a societal disgrace and all."

"Oh yeah," Chase said with a smirk on his face, "I almost forgot. Your the son of the homo detectives." He grabbed Hamish by the scruff of his neck, and three other kids helped push him down the hall.

"Hamish!" Lisa called out, before being pushed into the lockers by Janet.

"Let me go you oversized git! Don't drag me into your mess of 'roid rage and womanizing. Does your girlfriend know you're cheating? That you lied to her last night?" Hamish tried to kick the rugby players off him.

"Why you little liar!" Chase started.

"I'm not a liar, and you know it! You're just pissed because you can't figure out how I know."

"See," Janet said as the group stopped in front of an empty locker, and one of the thugs held it open for Chase, "That's the kind of remarks that get you into this mess, Hamish." She spit his name with acid dripping from each syllable. Chase then stuffed Hamish into the locker; he barely fit and had to be folded to get him all the way in. "We're just trying to help." They shut the door. "Freak."

The bullies then left Hamish in the darkness of the tiny locker, where he spent half of the next class before Lisa finally found him and managed to get the door open. Hamish slowly unfolded himself into the hallway, then stood there in silence, looking at his feet. "How much longer is this going to go on, Hal?" Lisa asked, placing a concerned hand on his arm. "They've been at it for almost three years now. Not Chase and the rugby team, exactly, but it's always someone."

Hamish whispered to the floor, "Please don't tell anyone." Lisa started to protest, but saw the tears start to form in his eyes. "Especially not my dads. They'd be angry. And the last time someone hurt someone Papa cares about, he threw them out a window. More than once."

"I'd actually love to see your Papa throw Chase out a window. He deserves it, by the way." Lisa frowned and out her arms around Hamish. "Please just do something about this. Tell someone." Hamish returned the hug and put his chin on the top of her head, remaining silent. "They could hurt you next time."


	4. Together

"Hamish Watson-Holmes to the front office, Hamish Watson-Holmes to the front office. Thank you." The loud speaker crackled through the hallways of the school, causing Hamish to look up.

He had been sitting in the maths hallway, reading a book on the history and controversy of organ transplants and avoiding those in the lunch room, when the announcement went out. He unfolded himself with the elegance he had inherited from Sherlock, and proceeded to weave his way down the halls without looking up from his book. He opened the door and stepped into the front office, his book still expertly placed in front of his face. "Yes?" He finally shut the literature with a snap.

John was standing next to the desk, a frantic look in his eyes. "We have to go, Hamish. I just got a call from the hospital and your Papa was just in an accident." He turned Hamish around and began guiding him out of the office and out the front doors of the school, just as the bell rang.

Lisa walked out of a side door, and upon seeing Hamish, went bounding up to him. "Hamish! Are we still stopping for ice cream after school?"

"I can't anymore, Lis." Hamish stopped, causing John to turn, and wait impatiently. "My papa has been in an accident, and I'm going with my dad to the hospital."

"Oh my god! Do you want me to come with you?" She put a concerned hand on his arm.

Hamish smiled, his eyes crinkling in the same way John's did. "Thanks, but I don't think so. But, can you return my book to my locker?" He handed her the hardback.

"Yeah, sure, of course. I'm worried, though. Call me later?"

"Always do." Hamish gave her a quick peck on the cheek, then strode hurriedly away towards John's cab. "What kind of an accident, Dad?" Hamish diverted John's thinking from Lisa.

"They didn't really say." They got in the cab and it pulled away from the curb. "I was at the surgery today, and Sherlock was just following a lead for a case we're working on, but Molly called as soon as she heard that the ambulance was headed out to get him. He should be just getting there right now." John's phone rang in his hand. "Molly? Yes, of course. Be right there. Thank you." He hung up. "He's in the trauma ward right now."

John started wringing his hands nervously. Hamish reached out and put his own hand on top. "It's going to be alright, Dad. Papa's immortal, remember?"

"Yeah, well, he damn well thinks he is and that's the bloody problem." John scoffed, then laughed a little.

The cab dropped them off at the Emergency Room side of St. Bart's, and the two flew through the doors and down the hall to the trauma ward. Sherlock sat propped up in one of the beds, his trousers missing and a pair of scrub shorts looking very misplaced on his bruised legs, bossing a nurse around. He was speaking surprisingly well past his bloody lip, and a small cut above his right eye was also slowly dripping crimson down his cheek. "No, no, no. Wrap the bandage from right to left. Are you trying to kill me?"

"Oh, thank god." John sighed, "He's perfectly fine."

"Dr. Watson-Holmes?" A trauma surgeon rounded the corner, holding Sherlock's charts under his arm. "Your husband's been shot in the leg."

John ground his jaw in nervous frustration. "Hamish, go get your Papa to stop harassing that poor nurse." The teen walked across the room and John faintly heard 'hey Pops, did you at least get the murderer?' before he asked the doctor, "How's he look?"

"Lucky. A through and through, with no permanent nerve damage. He lost a lot of blood, but apparently not enough to prevent him from trying to tell me how to do my job."

John sighed, "Sounds like my Sherlock. Sorry about that, by the way."

"He has a small fracture in his hip from falling onto the curb at the speed he did, and there will be some bruises and scrapes, but that comes from falling from a moving car, so-"

"Wait, excuse me?"

"Your husband was on the side of a car, trying to get at his suspect. He was shot, and as he fell to the sidewalk, he pulled the other guy out was well. DI Lestrade was with him and called the ambulance." John frowned angrily. "But he must be made mostly of titanium, because the bullet wound and the hip fracture are the only major injuries we could find. We are, however, still waiting for the results on the CT scan on his brain."

"Thanks, Doctor." The surgeon nodded, and John excused himself to go across the room.

"Ah, John. Can you hand me my cell phone?" Sherlock said, not looking up from the bandage he was now doing himself, having caused the nurse to give up in frustration.

"If you were not bleeding on a hospital bed right now, I would punch you. This time, without your permission." Sherlock looked up, his brows furrowed in confusion and the end of the bandage still held in his teeth. "What the hell do you think you were doing hanging off the side of a moving vehicle? You are lucky to be alive, do you know that?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and quickly finished up the bandage. "I was catching a murderer, John. My work, in case you'd forgotten."

John's glare was so hot, it made even Hamish back up. "I hadn't. But you have a family, in case YOU'D forgotten."

Realization ironed out the confused creases on Sherlock's face. "Ohhh. That's why your angry, isn't it? And my comments were not good, correct?"

"Yeah, a bit not good, Sherlock." John's anger melted, and Hamish tried to stifle a laugh at the familiar exchange.

"I'm sorry I worried you." The detective searched his army doctor's face for repentance.

John smiled a bit. "I'm just glad you're alive and still your arrogant self." He pushed the curls off Sherlock's head and planted a long kiss on his forehead, Sherlock wrapping his arms around John's free one, closing his eyes and sighing into his husband's chest.

"John, I'm tired and in pain." A fact Sherlock would never admit to anyone else.

"I know," John said quietly, laying his head on the bed of curls and rubbing Sherlock's back with his free hand. "I know."

Hamish slipped out of the tiny room to give his dads the privacy they wanted but didn't ask for, bumping into Lestrade as he did. "Hi, Uncle Greg."

"How's your dads?" He asked, "I only just now got out of doing all the paperwork."

"Well, Papa is alive and pissing people off as usual, and I think Dad is just worn out from the worry."

"Yeah, I would imagine so. Can I go in and talk to them?"

"Well, they're having 'them time'. Wanna go track down a cup of coffee?" Hamish suggested, pulling his cell phone out. Lestrade nodded and lead the way as the teen dialed the numbers. "Lis? Hey, it's me. Just called to tell you that everything's OK. Well, for now at least. We're waiting on some test results. But, everyone's alive. Call me when school gets out. Bye." He hung up the phone.

Lestrade slung an arm around his godson. "Got yourself a lady friend there, Watson-Holmes?"

Hamish just laughed. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

"You can tell me over coffee." The DI said, leading Hamish into the hospital cafeteria.

"You look really pale," John remarked. He had seated himself in the chair next to the hospital bed and was stroking Sherlock's hand with his thumb as the detective tried to fight off sleep. "Drink some water, please."

He brought the glass and straw up for Sherlock to take a drink, and being too tired to protest, the tall man drank, then laid his head back on the bed. "John?" Sherlock whispered just before dropping off, "Where are my trousers?"

John chuckled softly to himself. "What's funny?" Lestrade said quietly, coming into the room with Hamish and Molly, and handing John a cup of coffee.

"He was just wondering where his trousers were." John laughed again. "They were his favorite pair, you know. And he looked good in them, too. I told him so just this morning."

"Yeah, I know, I heard." Hamish mumbled, sitting himself down in the chair on the other side of Sherlock.

The trauma surgeon from before came in. "Well, the tests came back good. No brain damage-"

"Damn it." Lestrade said jokingly, causing the small party to laugh and puzzling the doctor. "You have to know him to get why that's funny." The detective inspector waved a dismissing hand.

"Anyway, no internal bleeding or damage, either. The only thing is that, with a fractured hip and a bullet wound in one leg, he won't be walking for a while. And even after, he'll have to be careful with that hip for a few months." The doctor flipped through the paperwork in his hands. "We want to keep him overnight to monitor him for shock or in case any serious problems arise, though. He isn't in critical enough condition that he can't wear his own clothes, so if you'd like to run home and get some for him, feel free." John nodded. "We'll be moving him soon, if you could just step out and sign some papers first, please." Everyone stood.

"I'll take Hal home to get an overnight bag put together, and we'll be back soon." Lestrade said, leading Hamish out of the room.

That night, the whole Watson-Holmes crowd elected to stay the night. At around 8 o'clock, Sherlock was awake again and complaining about having to eat dinner. "I'm not hungry, John. Digesting will only slow me down."

John was fed up at this point. "Oh my god, it's like caring for a toddler. Sherlock, slow you down doing what? You're not even allowed to leave this bed!"

"Well, that's dull."

A soft knock came at the door, and Hamish went to see who it was. Lisa stood on the other side with a large bouquet of flowers. "What are you doing here?"

"Eat the goddamn food, Sherlock, or I will force you!"

"I'd like to see you try."

Hamish stepped out into the hall, closing the door on the sight of his dad trying to force chicken fingers into the injured, but stubborn man's mouth. "I brought these for your Papa. And I wanted to make sure you're OK."

"I'm fine, thanks. Just really tired. Papa's fine and awake and pissing Dad off again." Lisa raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, he's hard to explain." The two teens laughed, and Hamish closed her in a hug. "Thanks for coming down. Let's go put these on the beside table." He opened the door back up and stepped inside.

"Dear lord, sometimes I hate you so much." John said, throwing himself down into the chair next to the bed, the chicken fingers gone and Sherlock bearing a cross look on his face.

"Guys, this is Lisa." Hamish said, stepping out of the way so his dads could see. "She heard about the accident and brought some flowers by to make you feel better."

"Why would generic drug store flowers make me feel any better?" Sherlock said.

Lisa's face visibly fell, "I'm sorry, I-"

"Lisa, don't worry about it. He's always like this. Doesn't see the value in his own skin, if you ask him about it." John said. "They're lovely. Thank you." He took the flowers and went to set them on the bedside table. "Sherlock, say thank you."

Sherlock visibly softened. "I'm sorry, Miss Lisa. I guess it's the stress talking. Thank you for thinking of me."

Lisa smiled. "No problem, Mr. Watson-Holmes."

"You can refer to us as John and Sherlock," John said, going to shake her hand.

"Thanks. Well, I unfortunately can't stay. I have school tomorrow. Bye, Hal." She raised herself up onto her tiptoes and gave him a light, quick goodbye kiss. "It was nice meeting you, sirs." She waved and showed herself out.

"Bye, Lis!" Hamish called after.

John and Sherlock exchanged a look and had one of their brief, silent conversations. "Well, she seems nice." John said.

"Yeah." Hamish got a little red. "How's your hip, Pop?"

Sherlock frowned again. "I am fine and everyone in this place knows that damn well, too."

"Sherlock, you were shot!"

"Details, John." Sherlock waved a dismissive hand at his husband, before laughing his slow, deep laugh.

John and Hamish joined in, and the family laughed together out of sheer exhaustion. Hamish flicked the light switch off and fell into a heap on the pull out sofa, sighing loudly as he welcomed sleep.

Sherlock laid his head back on the inclined bed, and closed his eyes, while John took hold of his hand again, and bent forward to lay his head on Sherlock's legs. The clock ticked on the wall, but neither of the detectives could sleep. "John?" Sherlock whispered, trying not wake their son.

"Yes?"

"I'm cold."

"You just told me three minutes ago you were too hot." John mumbled, but moved to get more blankets.

Sherlock caught his wrist and said quietly, "No, I mean... Well... I'm not used to sleeping in bed like this."

"Well, I know the incline is uncomfortable, but-"

"No, I mean without you."

John's eyes filled with tears. "Here," He put his arms around him to lift him and set him down on the farthest side of the bed, then crawled on top of the covers, situating himself so Sherlock could rest his head on John's chest. "You know, you really scared me today." John choked through his tears, tightening his grip slightly around the thin frame.

Sherlock ran his fingers absently in small circles on John's bicep. "I know." He was silent for a bit. "And honestly, I scared myself, too. I was afraid, John. Actually afraid that I wasn't going to be OK, and that I would have to leave you two. Me, scared." He scoffed lightly. "That's why I acted the way I did in the trauma ward. There couldn't be two of us scared, and if I acted fine, you wouldn't be afraid anymore. And-" Sherlock's voice started to crack from tears of his own. "And I just wanted you to be OK. For Hal. Because I knew that if I wasn't OK in the end, at least one of us would be." Tears splattered onto John's brown T-shirt, and into Sherlock's soft curls.

John took a small, shuddered breath. "You idiot. Don't you know that if you hadn't been OK, I wouldn't have been either. We're in this together, and always have been. Ever since I killed a cab driver for you." The two laughed through the tears. Silence filled the room once more as the couple listened to the breathing of their family.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I love you."

"I love you, too."


	5. Home Movies

"John!" Sherlock yelled from the couch. No one answered, the flat was silent. "Joohhhnnn!" He moaned again, but it fell on deaf ears. Either his husband and son were ignoring him, or they couldn't hear him from the living room. He stretched to the coffee table to get his gun, trying hard not to move from the waist down; his left hip sore from the fracture, and the right leg sore from the bullet. "John!" He fired a round into the wall. "John!" And again.

Hamish stomped down the stairs, not even bothering to reach the bottom before yelling, "Dad went out three hours ago, now shut. up!" He stomped back up the stairs.

Sherlock pouted. He fingered the gun absently, then used it to scratch an itch on his head as he stretched for his cell phone. He couldn't reach it. Sherlock stared at it for a brief second, then fired another round into the wallpaper. "Hamish!"

The teenager ran down the stairs. "What?! What do you want now? I have my chemistry final on Monday and I'm trying to review."

"I can't reach my cell phone."

"Oh. My. God! I seriously want to poke you in your bullet wound right now."

"What'd he do this time?" John said, putting the grocery bags down on the kitchen table.

"Putting bullets through the wall again, not realizing you'd gone out, and screaming your name through the flat because he can't reach his cell phone. Forget studying, I'm so past done with this whole situation." Hamish put his hands on the slender hips and looked expectantly at his dad.

"Sherlock, why don't we watch a movie? Hmm?"

"Dull." He drawled, fiddling with the gun.

"Well, then Hal and I are going to go out for a while and leave you to your sulking." John said, tossing Hamish his coat.

"Later, Gimpy." Hamish started toward the door.

"Wait," Sherlock said, "What movie?"

John smiled. "Sorry, Hal. Family night in."

"I'm picking the movie, then." Hamish starting rooting around in the DVD bin next to the TV. "What's this one about?" He held up the case for a sci-fi movie, a tall man in a trench coat walking over debris on the front.

"It's Star Trek. Boring. Improbable." Sherlock said as he slowly tried to shift himself to a sitting position in the middle of the couch.

"Hey, what's this? 'The home videos John insisted on making and forced me to take time out of my day to burn it onto a DVD'?" Hamish held up a bare disk.

"Did you really write that on the disk?" John said, while Sherlock just shrugged.

Hamish stuck the disk into the DVD player and settled himself on the couch next to Sherlock. "You put a bullet through the telley, and I will be forced to kill you." Hamish took the gun away from his Papa and set it on the side table.

"Sherlock, is it on yet?" John's voice came through the TV.

"I don't know, I'm busy."

"Hey, look! A lens cap. That's why I couldn't see anything." The black veil on the screen was pulled away to reveal John holding the camera a little too close to his face.

"Nice." Real Sherlock said.

"Why did you even buy that thing in the first place?" TV Sherlock's skeptic voice said. The camera swung around to focus on Sherlock peering down a microscope at the kitchen table, Hamish in a high chair and expertly out of reach of the chemicals on the table.

"Memories, Sherlock. Not everyone has an edenic one like you." Sherlock waved a hand. "Say hello to our future selves." John got really close to Sherlock with the camera, catching his glare in full frame.

Real John poked Sherlock. "Look how young you were back then."

TV John continued, "We'll probably be rewatching these tapes when Hamish has gone off to Uni and there's nothing else for us to do but reminisce. Is this how you want to remember yourself?"

"Yes." Sherlock pushed the camera out of the way. "Statistically speaking, you'll probably be fat by then."

"And speaking from past experience, you'll still be an ass." John sighed, and Hamish squawked loudly in his high chair.

John put the camera down on the table, and all the frame contained was Sherlock's torso and John's as he went over to the high chair. "You want Papa to hold you?"

"John, I can't, there's chemicals on the table."

John yanked Sherlock out of his chair. "Then don't be at the table." The camera now only caught the chemicals, and John's hand as it slid into Sherlock's back pocket.

"Great, John." Sherlock's voice was low and quiet. "Now I've lost my train of thought and the experi-" TV Sherlock was no longer talking.

Real Hamish filled the silence. "Thanks guys. I was right there, by the way."

The camera was lifted again and it focused on Sherlock, holding baby Hamish in his arms. "Can you believe he's about to be one?"

"It's hard to believe, that's for true. The time's really flown."

"Before you know it, he'll be solving his first murder." Hamish giggled in his Papa's arms.

"Um, how about no?" John said, getting close to Sherlock again. "Now, are you hungry?"

"No."

"Of course not."

The tape cut to the next recording. Hamish was around 3, sitting on the floor with his building blocks scattered all around him. Real Hamish scoffed. "Jesus, I was tiny."

"Well, I couldn't get you to eat anything. What'd you expect?" Real John said from the other end of the couch.

"Shhhh!" Sherlock waved his hands into both of their faces. "I remember this. It gets fun, soon."

"Alright, Hamish, the more you take, the more you leave behind. What are they?" John's voice came from behind the camera.

"Footprints. Next." Sherlock's voice was off screen.

The camera panned up and Sherlock was sitting in front of his laptop. "That riddle was for your son, Sherlock, not you."

"Yeah, Papa! Dad is giving me puzzles, not you." Hamish jumped up from the floor and ran over to Sherlock, pushing his leg defiantly.

"Be quicker next time, son." Sherlock didn't look down. "What goes up and down the stairs without moving?" Hamish started to think. "5... 4..."

"A railing or a rug!" Hamish squealed, delighted that he'd gotten it right. "Dad, what goes around the world, but stays in the corner?"

"Uh..." John said.

"A stamp. Easy." Sherlock said again.

"Right, I was just about to say that." John remarked.

"No you weren't." Both TV and Real Sherlock said.

TV John sighed heavily. "I'm done for today."

The screen flickered to the next recording. The camera was placed on John and Sherlock's dresser, facing the bed. The bedroom light clicked off and the night vision on the camera switched on. "You sure you turned the camera off?" John said, crawling into bed.

"Of course I did, I'm not an idiot." Sherlock said, following suit.

Real John flew off the couch and at the TV. "Oh, no. I don't know and don't like where this is going." He stood in front of the screen, blocking it from Hamish's view, and fast forwarding the tape. Hamish and Sherlock resolved into spirals of laughter on the couch. "This isn't funny. Sherlock, you moron, the camera was still on! And I was right, this did need to be fast forwarded through. But, we will talk about that later."

Hamish choked through his tears of laughter. "Oh man, someday we'll look back on this and die of laughter. I'm going to forever bring it up as 'hey remember that one time you accidentally made a sex tape?' Classic." Hamish spurred another round of giggles from Sherlock.

"No, you won't, Hamish. This is not a funny scenario. Sherlock, help me out here?"

Sherlock hiccuped and wiped the tears from his eyes. "Yeah, sure, whatever you want. Just don't erase that tape."

Hamish lost it again, falling to the floor, no air left to laugh, he just coughed instead. "Hey, wait." John said. "There's something else on this one." He rewound a bit.

"Don't tell me, John. Ghosts?" Sherlock said sarcastically.

"No, watch." John went to sit back down.

The night vision was still on, and Sherlock and John were asleep in bed. Suddenly, a crash sounded from downstairs on the tape. John rolled over and his hand came down with a 'smack' on Sherlock's face. The detective sat up quickly and punched John in the ribs. "Ow, what the hell?" John sat up.

"Me? You smacked me in the face!"

Real Hamish was giggling again.

Another crash sounded on the TV. "I thought that was you downstairs, I was feeling your side of the bed to check if you were still there."

"You smacked me, though."

"Wait, Sherlock. If you're up here, then what was that noise?" Both men sprang out of bed and ran outside the room.

Real John fast forwarded again, to the point when the two came back into the room.

TV John was crawling back into bed. "I can't believe Hamish was up at this hour."

"Genius never sleeps, John."

"You sleep sometimes."

"My body does, not my mind."

"Well, go back to sleep." The couple laid down, and John promptly fell back asleep again.

Just as Real John was about to fast forward the tape again, TV Sherlock got up again and situated himself in the arm chair in the corner next to the bed. He folded himself into it, steepled his hands in his thinking position and proceeded to stare at John.

"Do you do that every night?" Real John asked.

"Only nights I can't sleep. Three, four times a week." Sherlock waved it off.

"You just stare at me sleeping?"

"Yes. Your breathing helps me think." John just shook his head and fast forwarded again.

The tape went on through the rest of night, until Sherlock went downstairs just before John woke up. "Sherlock!" TV John called.

Sherlock came back into the room. "What?"

"You sure you turned this camera off last night?"

"Yes, of course."

"Oh, ok. Cause if it had been on all night, it caught some interesting footage." John laughed, inspecting the camera.

"Well, if it did, that will make for a very awkward moment one day."

"Or a nice little refresher, eh?"

Hamish fell of the couch laughing again.


	6. Waiting

A month later, Sherlock was up and walking again, but still not allowed to go back to work. So, he spent his days moping around the flat, and looming over Hamish as he did his school work. "Why do you need to read this?" Sherlock said, obviously annoyed with what the school was trying to fill Hamish's head with. He pushed the book up to effectively read the title. "The Scarlet Letter. Rubbish."

"Papa, leave me alone. I have to finish it by Thursday, and I'm behind already as it is." Hamish turned away on his bed, facing the wall with his back to Sherlock.

The bored consulting detective looked around the room, trying to find something to occupy himself with. "What's this?"

"A poster."

"Well, obviously. But of whom?"

"I don't know. It's just a model." Hamish was starting to get irked.

"Why do you have it?"

"Because I'm a guy? I don't know, Papa. I'm just trying to do my homework. Where's Dad?"

"Work."

"Where's Uncle Greg?"

"Work."

Hamish sighed. "Why don't you go down to St. Bart's and jab some corpses with a stick? I'm sure Miss Molly will let you in."

"I can't. Your dad paid everyone off to keep me from anything that has to do with work until I'm healed."

"Then go watch a movie? Why don't you go yell at that Star Trek film again? Lord knows you enjoy that."

"There's no way one man could take down an entire war fleet by himself! It's inconceivable!"

"He was genetically engineered, Papa! Also, it's just a movie." Sherlock sighed heavily, and picked up the Rubix Cube off Hamish's desk, solving it in a blink of an eye. "Look," Hamish shut the book, "I know you're bored. It must suck to have to be cooped up here all day, but I really need to get this done. Afterwards, I'll take you out for ice cream or something."

Sherlock nodded slowly. "Alright. But, I'm taking this with me." He walked out of the room with the Rubix Cube still in hand.

Hours later, Hamish closed the book. "Well that was tedious." He tossed it across the room. "I'll be sure to delete that right after the test." He stretched and looked at the clock. "I guess I better go take Papa for ice cream."

He padded down the stairs, and when he reached the hallway, he heard John finishing a sentence, "...so I don't know what we're going to do now, but it could last a while, so we'll have to think fast."

"I'm sure it will be fine." Sherlock said.

"Sherlock, I don't think you understand the situation." His voice raised only slightly. "I just got laid off. And you're not exactly working right now either." His voice started dripping demeaning syllables, "That means we have no money." He sighed heavily. "And after the savings run out, we're genuinely fucked."

"I'll go back to work soon." Sherlock said defiantly.

"You don't have a real job, Sherlock! Our little Scooby Gang act was fun when we were younger and didn't have a kid to feed, too, but now it's gotten old and unreliable." John spoke softer now. "I'm sorry, but you need to grow up and wake up." His phone rang. "Hello? This is he."

Hamish walked into the kitchen and sat down next to his Papa. "Ice cream?" He tried to act as if nothing was wrong.

Sherlock glanced at John, who was talking on the phone in the living room. "Maybe another time, Hal."

"Alright, thanks. I'll take care of it straight away." John hung up the phone and walked back into the kitchen. Crossing his arms, he said, "Hamish, would you like to tell me why you've been skipping school?" Hamish dropped his gaze, afraid to admit to the bullying he had been experiencing. "Seriously, Hal, three days in the past month? One more and you could be looking at a suspension. Why?"

"School is boring." John shot a small glare at Sherlock. "Too easy. I figured if I didn't go a day or two here and there, no one would miss me." Hamish lied through his teeth.

"Well, no more." Joh said decisively. "If I hear of you skipping one more time, there will be some serious consequences. For now, you're grounded tonight. Upstairs, now." He pointed to the door to the hall, and Hamish showed himself out.

He was halfway up the stairs when he heard Sherlock say, "Where are you going, John?"

"Out." John moved into the hallway and walked towards the door.

Sherlock followed him and said, "You've been out all day. I thought you said you were going to take me out to dinner tonight? I haven't left the flat since my injury."

"There's TV dinner in the fridge." And the front door shut with a snap.

Sherlock's shoulders sank, dropping his tough demeanor only when he thought he was alone, and he walked back into the kitchen. Hamish climbed the stairs quietly and sat on his bed, pulling out another book on abnormal psychology. After an hour of reading, he unfolded himself and went back downstairs. Sherlock sat cross-legged in his chair, his fingers steepled against his mouth, staring at John's phone that he had left on the table. "Papa?" Hamish said tentatively.

"Hmm?"

"You hungry at all?" He found a leftover sandwich in the fridge that he thought sounded good.

"No."

Hamish took the sandwich and started towards the stairs. "Whatcha thinking about?"

"I'm not thinking. I'm just waiting."

Hamish realized his papa didn't want to be bothered anymore, so he stole his way quietly up the stairs. As he bit into his sandwich, he hoped for his papa's sake, that Dad would come home soon.


	7. Sweeter than Sixteen

It had been five months since John lost his job, and the small family was still struggling to keep their heads above water. Sherlock had gone back to work, but John had been right when he said the job was unreliable. Frayed nerves ran high, and the couple tried their best to hide it from their son, but Hamish wasn't stupid. He felt the tension, heard the small arguments, and saw his Papa uncharacteristically walk on glass trying to avoid making Dad angry, often not talking for days on end. But, Hamish turned a blind eye for their sake. Just after Hamish entered his final year in secondary school, it was time to celebrate his seventeenth birthday, and Mrs. Hudson had waved their rent for the month so that John could throw Hamish a small party; she even baked the cake for them.

Like every year, Lestrade and Molly came over the celebrate, but Mycroft and Kelly had to skip this year, Kelly having just had a baby herself. Lestrade brought his godson a new TV, and Molly's gift was a stationary and pen set. "So you can write us all letters when you off to University next year." She explained.

The party was simple, John and Sherlock could only afford to get him the new video game he'd been looking at for quite some time, but Hamish was grateful nonetheless. He just didn't have the heart to tell his dads that he had sold his gaming system to pay off the rent debt they'd dug themselves into, begging Mrs. Hudson to play it off as 'an anonymous friendly gesture'. John had assumed it was Lestrade, but Sherlock knew better and kept the secret.

Throughout the party, John flitted back and forth, making sure everyone had beverages and cake, while Sherlock remained mostly silent on the couch. He only opened his mouth to tell a story here and there, but he insulted Molly once by mistake, and John's glare shut him up. When everyone had cake and was settling into a chat with Hamish about his plans for university, John brought his own piece to the living room. Sherlock slid over on the couch to make room for him, but John dragged a chair over from the kitchen and joined the conversation.

Later, after Molly had gone, Lestrade and Sherlock began to talk work, forcing John out of the living room and into the kitchen to do dishes, he didn't want to hear about any cases anymore. Hamish excused himself to drag his TV up the stairs, not intending to ever take it out of the box. It would be worth more unopened and could help a lot when they go to buy his school supplies for Uni. He came out of his room, and from the top of the stairs he saw John showing Lestrade out. "You guys OK?" Lestrade said, titling his head toward the living room where Sherlock most likely still sat, a concerned look on his face. "Normally, I wouldn't pry, but you've become like brothers to me over the years."

John shrugged. "Just a rough patch, you know. All relationships have them."

"Well, I really don't mean to pry, but how long has it been since you two h-"

"We'll be fine, Greg."

"Well, if you ever need anything, call me. Maybe sometime soon I can take Hamish off your hands for a night? Like I used to do every other Friday night when he was really little?"

"Thanks, but we'll be fine." The reassurance in John's voice changed to cold unwelcome, and Lestrade let himself out of the flat.

Then, John grabbed his coat. "I'm going out." He called to Sherlock.

"Can you get some milk?" Sherlock asked, but the door just snapped shut without a response.

Hamish went back into his room and picked up his chemistry book and went back into the living room. "Hey, Papa, can you explain this reaction to me?" He set the book down on the coffee table, hoping to cheer Sherlock up.

Sherlock saw right through it, knowing full well that Hamish wanted to be a chemist someday, and that he understood this very simple reaction perfectly. But, recognizing his son's efforts to help, he explained it anyway. They sat up talking experiments until two in the morning, when the front door creaked open. "It's time for bed, son." Sherlock said, cutting Hamish off mid-sentance.

So Hamish gathered up his book and notes and skittered quickly up the stairs, falling into his bed completely spent, and sighing deeply into sleep.


	8. Cold

***Trigger warning. Proceed with caution.**

* * *

Hamish was close to the end of school, eager to get out and away from the problems it caused. The bullying was increasing, and there was still some tension at home. His dad had found a new job, but money was only just starting to come in, and it had him working long hours. Mostly, he came home and fell asleep right away, sometimes waking up at midnight to go out with Stamford. Hamish was just hoping that, with one problem fixed, the others would fix themselves soon, even though the bullying problem might take until graduation.

After one particularly violent round of bullying, Hamish stayed out until way in the evening to avoid coming home to scrutinizing eyes. He tried to sneak in as quietly as possible, hoping to make it to his room without being detected. "Hamish, is that you?" His dad called from the living room.

Hamish winced. He knew there was no use sneaking in with detective parents. "Uh, yeah Dad. But, I'm just gonna go to bed."

He tried to start up the stairs, but John came out into the hall and stopped him. "Just hold on one second. No phone call, no-" He stopped when he saw the black eye his son was so desperately trying to hide. "Oh, Hal. What happened?" John asked gently, pulling the teen into the kitchen and sitting him down at the table next to Sherlock.

"It's nothing." Hamish said quietly.

"No, it's not." John said firmly, pressing a cold compress onto his son's face and starting to attend to the cut on his swollen lip. "Who did this to you?" Hamish didn't say a word. "I want a name, son. And I want it now." John gripped his arm tightly, letting him know he meant business.

"Chase and Janet. A rugby player and a cheerleader." Hamish whispered to the table.

John looked at Sherlock, who was staring into his tea mug, silent and unmoving. "How long has this been going on?"

"A few years."

"Years?!" John was incredulous. "Why on Earth didn't you tell us sooner?" Hamish shrugged lightly, and John looked at Sherlock for back up, an opinion, a comment, anything to reassure him that his husband was even slightly interested in their son's wellbeing. The tall man was as silent and still as before. John frowned. "Why are they bullying you?"

Hamish didn't talk at first, but then, biting back tears, he said meekly, "I'm smart. I observe and make deductions. I can name all the elements on the periodic table, and give you their practical uses on command. Stuff like that. And..." He trailed off.

"And...?"

"And because," Hamish proceeded slowly, knowing it was best to tell the whole truth, even though it was going to hurt his dads. "Because of you and Papa. Janet says I'm the product of a social disgrace."

John's face fell. He gave the cold compress to Hamish. "Go get yourself cleaned up and get some sleep. We'll talk more tomorrow."

Hamish skittered quickly out of the room and toward the stairs, but stopped when he heard John say, "Sherlock, what the hell was that?" He pressed himself into the shadows of the hallway and sat outside the kitchen door listening.

"What was what?" Sherlock drawled out.

"You didn't say a single word. Your son- OUR son was beaten to a pulp for years, YEARS, Sherlock, mostly thanks to us, and you sit there with your tea like nothing was happening!"

"What did you want me to say?"

"I don't know, Sherlock," John's voice was raising significantly and the sarcasm was being laid like bricks in a wall dividing the friends and lovers, "Maybe asked if he was ok, or something that showed you cared?" Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John held up a hand to stop him, "I know that 'caring isn't an advantage', but goddammit, Sherlock! You can be such a fucking machine sometimes, it drives me nuts. It's almost as if I can feel the cold metal every time I touch you. Care this time, will you? Prove to me I'm not sleeping with a stranger!"

What happened next scared Hamish to tears. He could hear the squeak of a chair sliding back across the wood; Sherlock jumping to his feet. Hamish had never heard his Papa yell at Dad before, but this time Sherlock didn't hold back, "What the hell do you want me to tell him, John?! I have no advice for this situation! Do you want me to just tell him to stick his head in the sand and wait it out?! Because that's what I did all those years of primary and secondary school! When I came home with swollen eyes and bruised ribs and even a broken arm one time, and Mycroft had to patch me up, there was no advice! I just let them proceed until they got arrested for beating me within an inch of my life and trying to drown me in the local pond one night! But just because I have no idea what to tell my son, does NOT mean that I don't care! And you sleeping with a stranger? What about me? Drinking all night, falling into bed in a drunken stupor that would put a lesser man to shame, sometimes not even coming home at all! And feeling cold metal when you touch me?! How would you know?! You haven't even fucking touched me in months!"

There was a loud smack that seemed to suck all the air from the flat. Hamish carefully peeked around the corner. He saw John standing there, shock and horror and regret scribbled across his face, watching Sherlock. The taller man was staring at the floor, a red hand slowly burning itself into view on his cheek. "Oh my god, Sherlock, I'm so-"

"I think you should leave." Sherlock whispered.

"Sherlock, I-"

"Now, please." Sherlock didn't raise his voice above a whisper.

Hamish pressed himself as deep into the shadows as he could, silent tears streaming down his face as John practically ran out of the flat, even leaving his coat behind. There was quiet for a moment, before Hamish could hear Sherlock taking slow, heavy footsteps toward his study. The teen could almost hear the heartbreak in every footfall, and register the pure sorrow radiating from the small sigh his papa gave just before reaching the room and closing the door with a small click.

Hamish bolted fast, taking the steps two at a time and bursting into his room with as much silence as a rhinoceros. He paced the floor, pulling at his black curls in agony, whispering, "It's all my fault, it's all my fault." His laptop dinged suddenly, and through blurred vision, he saw he had several new messages from kids at his school. 'You're such a loser.' 'No one actually likes you.' 'Hey, Son of Faggots, why don't you just stop showing up to school!?' 'Just kill yourself already.' 'I can't wait for the day when you kill yourself.' 'Go jump off a bridge.' 'Kill yourself.' 'Kill yourself.'

Hamish dropped to the floor, sobbing so hard, he was violently shaking. "This is all my fault. I couldn't be normal. I drove my parents apart, everyone hates me." He sobbed into the floorboards, images flashing behind his eyelids. A scene of taunting smirks as the kids threw water balloons, a snippet of cruel laughter as Chase punched him in the face, a memory of John's hand clearly visible across Sherlock's porcelain skin. He rose on shaky limbs, and snuck quietly down to the living room, pulling his dad's gun from the top drawer of his desk, and stealing back upstairs.

He sat on his bed for the longest time, breathing in and out in raspy tones into the darkness, and stroking the cold metal of the familiar weapon. His laptop continued to sound, indicating more and more hate-mail from his peers. "This is all my fault." He finally whispered. And as he place the gun shakily against his chest, his cell phone buzzed on the side table. A text from Sherlock illuminated the room, 'I do care, Hamish. I care a lot. You're my son, and even though I don't say it as much as I should, I love you'. A text that the teen with dark blue eyes and even darker curls never got to read.

* * *

**End**


End file.
